


A Winter’s Tale, or, The Case of the Slip-Shod Servant

by OldShrewsburyian



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Book: A Study in Scarlet, Canon Compliant, Case Fic, Class Issues, Disabled Character, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, John Watson is a Good Doctor, Legal Drama, London, Patriarchy, Period Typical Attitudes, Poverty, Prison, Servants, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Some Humor, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes, Victorian, Victorian Attitudes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2019-05-31
Packaged: 2020-04-05 03:21:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19040125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OldShrewsburyian/pseuds/OldShrewsburyian
Summary: Early in the days of their association, Holmes asks Watson’s assistance. The doctor acquiesces, but remains somewhat bewildered by his strange fellow-lodger.





	A Winter’s Tale, or, The Case of the Slip-Shod Servant

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lamplighter1890](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lamplighter1890/gifts).



> Many, many thanks are due to [gentle_herald](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gentle_herald/pseuds/gentle_herald) for an eleventh-hour beta-reading, and to Sanguinity for forbearance as moderator.
> 
> Warnings: I couldn't find tags to indicate it, but one of the original characters in the story is mentally impaired. While I have tried to show her dignity and agency, she is treated in a rather paternalistic (though kindly) fashion by both Holmes and Watson. Part of the story takes place in Newgate Prison, though there are no graphic descriptions of its interior or its conditions.

_I found that he had many acquaintances, and those in the most different classes of society. There was one little sallow, rat-faced, dark-eyed fellow, who was introduced to me as Mr Lestrade, and who came three or four times in a single week. One morning a young girl called, fashionably dressed, and stayed for half an hour or more. The same afternoon brought a grey-headed, seedy visitor, looking like a Jew pedlar, who appeared to me to be much excited, and who was closely followed by a slip-shod elderly woman. On another occasion an old white-haired gentleman had an interview with my companion; and on another, a railway porter in his velveteen uniform. When any of these nondescript individuals put in an appearance, Sherlock Holmes used to beg for the use of the sitting-room, and I would retire to my bed-room. — A Study in Scarlet, Chapter 2_

From the Dispatch Box of John H. Watson, M.D.

If I have alluded comparatively seldom, in these pages, to the cases taken by my friend Sherlock Holmes during the winter months, it is for very good reason. Indeed, my readers may infer it for themselves from the sensibility with which I have recounted London’s chill damps and penetrating fogs. I do not like the cold. And in the winter of 1881, the first English winter I had experienced since the events of Maiwand, I liked it still less than I do now.

Some few months had elapsed since I had taken up lodgings at 221B Baker Street. My fellow-lodger was still a mystery to me, despite my list-making. As Stamford had warned me, it is not easy to express the inexpressible. And as I have written, I hesitated to ask him outright about his work. Friendless as I was, I clung — perhaps subconsciously, as my Viennese colleagues would now have it — even to this strange and chance-formed association. I had expected him to journey out of London at Christmastime, but he had remained, albeit without a word of explanation. Likewise unexplained had been the goose that materialized in the capable hands of Mrs. Hudson, but Holmes had twinkled at me, and made a half-jesting allusion to a prosperous client, and so we dined on a rather thin bird, and drank rather cheap wine, and Holmes played Tchaikovsky after dinner. At a distance of nearly forty years, I can think of few Christmases which I have found more festive. But I wander from my tale.

The new year found me in low spirits. My prospects were few, my pension small, and my wounds, in that bitter weather, often painful. I slept badly, and dozed in front of the fire in the afternoons. I confess that it only worsened my temper when I awoke (as not infrequently occurred) to find Holmes regarding me with an expression of concern in his grey and heavy-lidded eyes. On the Monday that marked the beginning of the story I am to relate, however, Holmes roused me of his own accord.

“What the devil — ” I began. (I make no attempts here to conceal or exonerate my ill humor.)

“I am sorry,” said Holmes. “It is a case where your expertise may be invaluable.”

I was bewildered; he seemed to have plunged into his narrative fully _in medias res_ ; and though his contrition at disturbing me seemed genuine enough, it was occluded entirely by his enthusiasm for whatever trail he was pursuing. “Holmes,” I said, “I do not follow you.”

“Ah!” he exclaimed, “but that is precisely what I am asking you to do. Are you fit to go out?”

“Of course,” I replied, stung. Much later it occurred to me that he might have deliberately piqued my pride in order to elicit the response he desired; such strategems, as I was to learn, were not beneath him.

“Excellent!” cried he, rubbing his hands. “Then come, and I shall explain on the way.”

Within minutes, we were rattling along in a hansom cab, and my fellow-lodger, alight with zeal, was attempting to explain the chain of events that had led him to seek my assistance.

“You will recall, Watson,” said he, “the elderly, or perhaps we should say middle-aged, woman who visited our rooms last week.”

“I do. I must say that I noticed she was cleaner than some of your acquaintances — excuse me, clients. That extremely grubby boy, for instance…”

“Wiggins is one of my most valuable allies; do not digress from the point, Watson.”

“I can hardly digress from it; you have not come to it!”

Holmes coughed. “Well. She is a Mrs. Eliza Hume, and she came on an errand of mercy.”

“If you are asking me to provide medical care _gratis_ ,” I protested, “I would remind you that we can ill afford such magnanimity, and I could recommend charitable hospitals which…”

“What she sought,” interrupted Holmes, “was intervention — mine. And now I am seeking yours. As you must know by my sleeves, it is often my habit to frequent the Old Bailey during these dull winter months.” I knew nothing of the kind; but I forbore to say so. “And this morning the case was heard of the woman on whose behalf Mrs. Hume interceded. I shall sketch to you an outline of the facts.”

“Please do,” I said; Holmes gave me a sharp glance, but otherwise added nothing to his précis of the case, which was as follows:

Mrs. Hume (Holmes said) had been the childhood friend of a Miss Alice Goring. They had grown up as neighbors in the same grim London street, and had become allies in necessity, as well as companions in play. From their earliest youth, despite the efforts of committees to restrict such labor, they had each taken such work as they could get, and shared what they could with the other. They were both resourceful, as well as hard-working, and this had not been the least of the factors in their alliance (this Holmes’ gloss on the rather rambling narrative he had received from Mrs. Hume.) But their fortunes, as they grew to womanhood, had diverged; and this was in part because of a third person in the case. 

Alice Goring had a younger sister, Ann, for whom she cared. And this duty or burden of care had not lessened as they grew older. If anything, indeed, it had increased, for the unfortunate Ann was simple-minded (“I give you, Watson,” said Holmes, “the term used by Mrs. Hume herself. As a doctor, you will doubtless be able to find a more suitable one.”) The elder Miss Goring had been concerned that Ann, with the power but not the judgment of her years, might do herself serious injury, and so had taken in laundry and piecework, while Mrs. Hume had gone out to service. She had become Mrs. Hume after meeting an ostler, and they had since taken up service in the same household in Berkshire. She had always, however, maintained contact with her friend. Having come of age before the Education Act, of course, neither of them was literate. But Mr. Hume (“Robert or Bob, Watson, though I hardly think this will be relevant to our pursuits”) had come regularly into London in connection with his work, and he had always, insofar as it lay in his power, called on his wife’s childhood friend, assuring her of their regard, and himself of her well-being, and that of Ann. It was, moreover, the custom of the kindly Mrs. Hume to visit Alice over the Christmas holidays. And it was this custom which had led to her discovery of the sad event over which she had wept in our Baker Street sitting room. 

“Really, Holmes,” I exclaimed, “this theatrical suspense is quite unnecessary.”

He cleared his throat with dignity. “Due to unusually elaborate entertainments at the home of her employer, Mrs. Hume was quite unable to leave Berkshire at Christmastide. So it was that she arrived in London this Friday last to discover her friend murdered, and her friend’s sister accused of the crime.”

“Good heavens, Holmes! You draw out your narrative at such length, only to confront me with its grotesque dénouement in this abrupt way!”

Holmes gave a half-shrug. “It is impossible to make murder other than it is, Watson. It is an irreducibly shocking fact.”

“Well,” I protested feebly, “but…”

Holmes held up an imperious hand. “Earlier today,” he continued, “I attended, at Mrs. Hume’s request, the trial of Ann Goring for the murder of her sister. The Surgeon of Prisons reported that she was quite unable to understand the charge, and unfit to plead to it.” Holmes sighed. “He seems a conscientious practitioner; he told the court that he endeavored to converse with the unfortunate Ann Goring, and I see no reason to disbelieve him.”

I frowned. “If you do not expect me to reach a different conclusion, then,” I said, “why call me to reexamine the evidence?”

Holmes leapt from the hansom cab, and reached his hand up to assist me to the street. I took it, and told myself that I did so only to placate his feelings, that I might sooner learn on what errand I had come to the cheerless environs of Newgate Prison.

“That is not,” said he, “what I hope that you may be able to do. Miss Goring is detained at Her Majesty’s pleasure. She will either die here, or in an asylum.” I shivered; it seemed to me that my companion spoke all too easily of death. “Or,” continued Holmes, “she may live out her days in comparative comfort, if it is ascertained by a medical doctor — ” here he made me a courtly half-bow — “that she is unlikely to present a danger to herself or others.”

“But the murder, Holmes!”

“Oh,” said he, “it is solved.”

“ _What?_ ”

“Tomorrow’s papers will report,” said he, “that Inspector Gregson, of the Yard, has been successful in extracting a confession from the man who lived below the sisters. Under the influence of gin — whether this drink is a skeleton or a poison or a devil or simply a spiritous liquor will depend, of course, on the newspaper — he attempted to steal the money which Miss Alice kept, most unwisely, under a floorboard. In this he was, in fact, successful.” 

Here Holmes sighed. “The police failed entirely to carry out a systematic interrogation of eyewitnesses. Although, to do Gregson justice, I must acknowledge that the inhabitants of that street and those buildings are much more likely to speak to, say, an itinerant rag-man than to a member of the police.”

I did not see the point of these discursive disquisitions, and said so.

“Ah,” said Holmes, and again looked at me sharply. “No. Perhaps not.” He appeared to collect his thoughts for a moment. “At all events,” said he, “the man was apprehended, spending his ill-gotten gains in an entirely predictable fashion, and the only question now before us is that of Ann’s fate.”

I shook my head sadly. “Deprived at once of her companion and protector…”

“Ah,” said Holmes, “but that is not all her story. You might bear in mind, when you speak with her, not only the general signification of her behavior, but the question of whether she might not do quite well if given a home where she might fulfill some simple tasks. Say, for instance, the feeding of chickens in Berkshire.” 

Almost despite myself, I found that I was returning my companion’s mischievous grin. “For instance,” I said.

“Indeed.”

I have no desire to linger on the horrors of Newgate Prison. These have been amply chronicled by others: by the able pen of Mr. Dickens, and in the pamphlets of many of our age’s most notable reformers. Suffice it to say that — by what blandishments of Holmes’, or by what less savory methods, I was careful not to inquire — we were admitted, and eventually shown into the presence of Ann Goring.

“Sirs,” she said, and made an awkward little curtsey. She was a powerfully-built woman of about forty years of age, but had about her the shyness of a child.

“Good evening,” said I, with a somewhat forced heartiness. “How do you do here?” The question could admit of only one answer; and Ann Goring twisted her fingers in the folds of her smock, and made no reply at all. I sighed. “What do you know about your sister, Ann?” I was careful not to ask what she had been told; too easily the poor creature might merely parrot the words of others, or be distressed at her own failure of recollection.

After a moment’s pause, Ann met my eyes for the first time. “She’s good,” she said firmly. “And I help. I’m a good help to her.” Here the tears started to her eyes, so passionate was she.

“I’m sure that you are,” said I softly.

“With the laundry,” added Ann.

“Yes,” I said, and stole a glance at Holmes. Far better, I thought, not to break the sad news to the woman in this sad place; far better to get her free and unite her with Mrs. Hume, and then…

“She’s dead,” said Ann suddenly.

“Yes,” I said. “I am very sorry for your sad loss.” Ann would, I thought, not know the word _bereavement_. But she knew the true sense of that truer word well enough, for she broke down and sobbed, not even bothering to cover her face with her hands. Defying the orderly with a look, I crossed to her and laid a hand on her shoulder. 

“Now, Ann,” I said, “Alice would not want you to be so unhappy. Now: would she?” The woman made me no answer. While I waited for her sobs to subside, I felt Holmes press something into my left hand, and looked down to discover that it was his handkerchief. “Now, Ann,” I said again; and I cleaned her face as I would have cleaned that of a child. 

“Ann,” I said, “do you remember Eliza?” I presumed that she would still know her friend by her childhood name; and here I did not err, for she nodded earnestly. “Good!” said I, as cheerfully as I could. “Well, Eliza sends you her best love, and she hopes that you will come and stay with her and Mr. Hume very soon.”

“And the cats?” said Ann.

“What?”

“Eliza said there’s cats.”

“Naturally,” Holmes broke in. “Most of them will be in the barn, for mousing — that is, to help Mr. Hume with his work, after a fashion — but I’m sure there could be no objection to your visiting them, at the very least. There might,” he added, “be kittens, who delight to play with a scrap of cambric such as the one you have there.”

I was sure that most of this speech must be lost on Ann Goring; but she seemed to take its tone, for she smiled at Holmes gratefully, and continued twisting his handkerchief in her hands.

“Now,” said I, “we must go, Ann, and see about getting you to Berkshire — that is, to Eliza. And the cats.” And she nodded, with a trust that I could not help but find pathetic; and we departed that dark place, not without relief. No later than that afternoon, I spoke with Mr. Gibson, the surgeon, and found him as Holmes had reported, a wise and sympathetic interlocutor. Within twenty-four hours, we had seen the release of Ann Goring — Her Majesty’s pleasure, in this instance, being determined by the character of her subjects, as in its best it always is.

It was not, of course, until some time later that I learned the true character of Holmes’ involvement in the case of the Goring sisters, and of the woman who traveled from Berkshire in a worn-out pair of shoes. But readers will gather from this narrative some flavor of our early life together. They may also, from Holmes’ narration, at once far-ranging in its subject and startling in its construction, infer some of the reasons that I set myself to become, as I have remained, his chronicler as well as his companion.

— _Sussex, 1919_

**Author's Note:**

> The outcome of Ann Goring’s original sentence is unknown, but she did not die until six years later, in a village in Berkshire. This casefic attempts to explain both of these things.
> 
> I’ve searched the records of the Old Bailey for the activities of John Rowlands Gibson as the Surgeon of Prisons, and have found him thoughtful and humane in assessing mental impairment, mental illness, and emotional distress, and how these could be exacerbated by the traumas of poverty. So, while I’m not trying to gloss over the abuses possible and prevalent in Victorian legal and penitential systems, I feel confident in writing in Mr. Gibson as a compassionate actor. 
> 
> Resources used in writing this fic include:  
> https://www.parliament.uk/about/living-heritage/transformingsociety/livinglearning/school/overview/1870educationact/ http://www.victorianweb.org/art/architecture/london/63.html  
> https://www.oldbaileyonline.org/browse.jsp?div=t18810110-175  
> https://www.digitalpanopticon.org/life?id=obpdef1-175-18810110


End file.
